On the staff of the Boston, U.S.A., detective department was a young Englishman named Walter Collins. Fair, sturdy of build, and brave as the proverbial lion, Collins, a man some thirty-two years of age, had gone to America with his parents when quite a boy. After a public-school education he obtained a position as stenographer in the Seventh Division Police Court, and later entered the force as a patrolman. His intelligence and the clever capture of "Kid Skelly," a famous burglar, gained him promotion, and in 1903 Collins became a full-fledged detective officer. Again his ability was made manifest, for in 1905 he captured Roth and Murray, the men who robbed Mrs. Van Rensselaer, a prominent American lady, of twenty thousand dollars' worth of jewels, the gems being recovered in London. Collins was now made a sergeant, which is, in the American police, a very superior position.
When the doings of the "Black Hand" first began to attract public attention, Collins interested himself in the matter in a quiet way, apart from his duties. He read everything available about other Italian secret societies, such as the Mafia and the Camorra, visited the Italian quarter of the city, and familiarized himself with the ways of the "Dagoes," as members of the Latin races are called in America. Meanwhile murder after murder was committed, blackmail was levied on all sides, and a virtual reign of terror was established among respectable Italians, no one knowing where the terrible scourge would strike next. Then, one morning after roll-call, Sergeant Collins presented himself before Inspector Ross, his chief, and said, "Inspector, I should like to be placed on detail duty in the Italian quarter."
Inspector Ross, however, informed him that this was impracticable. Collins was fair, and not a bit like an Italian; moreover, he could neither speak nor understand the language. The officer saluted and went about his usual business of guarding the banks.
That evening the door-bell rang at the private house of the detective-inspector and a beetle-browed, ill-clad Italian presented himself and asked to see Mr. Ross on important business. Mr. Ross saw the man, who, after some conversation in broken English, said, "I'm Sergeant Collins, sir!" He had dyed his hair and moustache, and convinced the inspector that he had for months been studying Italian and was quite proficient in the language. Ross, a very keen man, had quite failed to recognise his subordinate, and the next day Collins was given the job he had asked for, where he soon rendered useful service. Dozens of "wanted" Italian malefactors—coiners, pickpockets, and thieves—were run to earth, Collins himself never appearing in the matter, the arrests being made by other detectives. Nothing could be gleaned, however, about the subject that most interested him—the dreaded "Black Hand." The Italians mentioned the name of this terrible society in whispers, when they mentioned it at all, for one's very neighbour might be a member, and under such circumstances it was best to say nothing. From every city in the Union there came news of terrible murders—all after attempts had first been made to blackmail the victims. Reward after reward was offered, but not the faintest clue reached the police, and meanwhile public excitement grew intense.
One day Sergeant Collins—who, still in pursuit of information, had taken a situation with a firm of fruit shippers where many Italians were employed—was sent to New York to arrange there for a consignment of bananas. He was given a draft on an Italian private bank, to be drawn on only in case the deal went through. Arriving in New York, he mingled as usual with Italians, and wrote his letters to his firm from the offices of the bank on which his draft was drawn. A day or two afterwards he was seated at a small writing-desk in the bank, reading an Italian newspaper, when there entered a man whom Collins thought he knew. Glancing up guardedly, he recognised the visitor as an Italian who kept a small public-house in Boston, a rendezvous for shady characters. He saw that the man was immediately ushered into the private office of the banker, and this struck him as peculiar. Here was a man who could not possibly have a large banking account, yet he was treated with the greatest deference.
The saloon-keeper was in private consultation with the banker for over an hour, and on his departure Collins followed him. The man made straight for the railway station, where he was met by another Italian. There was an exchange of envelopes; then the first man booked a ticket for Boston.
Collins promptly wrote out a telegram and sent it to police head-quarters, and when the train left he followed the second man, who had been earnestly talking meanwhile to the first suspect. Collins was now taken up-town to One Hundred and Sixtieth Street, to what is known as "Little Italy," a locality entirely given over to Italians. Just near the famous "Gas House" the followed man stopped and looked carefully about him. He saw Collins, but took him to be only another Italian like himself. Reassured, he crossed the street and entered a saloon known as the "Slaughter-House," because of the many "knifings" which had taken place there. Collins walked right into the place and called for a drink. His man was nowhere to be seen, but the detective noticed that several men who had been seated at different tables slowly walked to the rear of the place and ascended a stairway leading above.
After a minute or two he turned to the bar-tender. "Have you seen So-and-so"—mentioning some imaginary person—"about to-day?" he inquired. The man replied that he did not know the man referred to.
"That's strange," continued Collins. "He told me down at the bank to meet him here."
"What bank?" queried the bar-tender.